eldest son, Thomas, with me, and he helps me wonderfully; and I do think I can do almost double the work, since I have had him with me. I really think, sir, your daughters would not be able to spend so fast, if I and my son did not work so hard; but I love to work for a good master.

Far. Well, Thomas, I shall have no objection against raising your son's wages, for he is a good lad. Tho. Thank you kindly, sir, for the times are very sharp, and my son is a growing, hungry boy.— But I will tell you what we do next. I come home to dinner: now, you know, sir, as we have a bit of a garden, which I dig up at odd times, and we keep a pig, which we kill for the winter, what between the pickings out of the garden, the acorns which the children pick up out of the 'squire's park, and a little barley meal, it does not cost us much to keep it; so that we can get a slice of bacon, and that relishes the potatoes and garden stuff, and I really think we are as thankful for that, as many a lord is for twenty times as much. Then I make one of the children read a bit of the Pilgrim's Progress, or some other good book, that Mr. Lovegood gives us, and then I go to my work; and, sir, if you please, I'll tell you the thanksgiving hymn, I sing as I walk along.

Far. Well, Thomas, let us hear it, for I am told you could sing as merry a song as any of us, before Mr. Lovegood came into your parish.

Tho. Well then, sir, this is my song:

My heart and my tongue shall unite in the praise
› Of Jesus, my Saviour, for mercy and grace;
He purchas'd my pardon by shedding his blood,
And bids me inherit the peace of my God.

My lot may be lowly, my parentage mean,
Yet born of my God, there are glories unseen;
Surpassing all joys among sinners on earth,
Prepared for souls of a heavenly birth.

Redeem'd from a thousand allurements to sin,
I find in my cottage my heaven begin;
And soon shall I lay all my poverty by,
Then mansions of glory for ever enjoy..

By the sweat of my brow, while I labour for bread,
Yet guarded by him, not an evil I dread;
And while I'm possess'd of all riches in thee,
My poverty comes with a blessing to me.

My labouring dress I shall soon lay aside,
For a robe bright and splendid, a dress for a bride;
A bride that is married to Jesus, the Lamb,
Shall shine in a robe, which is ever the same.

If my fare shall be scant, while I travel below,
Yet a feast that's eternal shall Jesus bestow;
No sorrow, nor sighing, shall ever annoy,
The heavenly banquet I there shall enjoy.

If my labouring body goes weary to rest,
Yet sav'd by the mercy of Jesus, I'm bless'd;
Fresh strength, for my labour on earth he bestows,
And above I shall bask in eternal repose.

Far. I confess, Thomas, you sing better sort of songs than we sing at our Christmas merry-makings; but let us hear how you end the day.

Tho. After my work, I return home; down I sit, and all my children come round me. I confess, sir, I am a little too fond of the twins, they are a pair of brave children: so I put one on one knee, and the other on the other: then I give them all a kiss, and my hearty blessing; for I love them dearly, and could work my skin to the bones to support them, Next I ask them what work they have done, how they have behaved to their mother and to each other: then I make the children read out of some good book, and I tell them what it means, and instruct them as well as I am able. Next we have a bit of supper, as the times afford; and afterwards my wife reaches down the bible, and reads a chapter; then we sing an

evening, or some other good hymn, and I go to prayer, after my poor fashion, and then our bed feels sweet to us; for, the Lord be praised! we have nothing to fear: for poverty keeps the door from thieves, and a peaceable mind soon sets us all asleep.

Far. You have told how you live: I confess I should be ashamed to tell you how we live; but, Thomas, I do not pretend to be a Saint; yet the house would be all in an uproar if I was to call my family to say their prayers, as often as you do.

Tho. Many and many a man may say prayers, never pray.

and

Far. Ay, true, Thomas; and so I thought when Mr. Dolittle came to our house, while our daughter Polly was likely to die of a brain fever. I thought it was shocking when he came to say his prayers to her, that the man who could come with Madam Dolittle and his children to our house two or three times

a year, to supper and cards, (what games and rackets we used to have!) and now he was to say his prayers, which I am sure he would not have done, if Polly had not been sick; but, oh! how it shocked me to hear her ask, for she was out of her mind, after he had done, if they might not have a game at whist? Thomas, I think I must have your parson with me when I die, if I do not like him so well as I should while I live.

Tho. But, sir, if I may be so bold, what came of it when Miss Polly recovered? If you sent for Mr. Dolittle to pray with her when she was sick, did you not send for him when she got better, to return thanks?

Far. Ono: we forgot all that: but the parson sent a card, as my daughters call it, to tell them, that he and his family would come and see them upon Polly's recovery; and such a piece of work there was to make out a proper card in return! how they should word

it, and how they should spell it: for my daughters. having been bred up in a farmer's house, and then sent to a boarding-school, are neither farmer's daughters, nor gentlefolks; but, however, religion was never thought of then,

Tho. Well, sir, I must not find fault with your parson; and I think you cannot find fault with mine; but, by your desire, I am next to tell you how we spend the Sunday.

Far. Why every day seems to be a Sunday with you, but as you do not then go to work.

Tho. But, sir, we have something better still on the Sunday.

Far. [Taking out his watch.] I cannot walk very fast, and I must not stop longer, as it is almost dinner time; but I will be here again to-morrow, and then you shall tell me how you spend your Sundays, and here's a shilling for your boy.

Thomas's boy. Thank you, sir, and be so good as to thank my young mistresses for the six-pence they gave me, when I brought the band-boxes from Madam Flirt, the milliner's.

Far. Ah! band-boxes! since my daughters have come home from the boarding-school, they have all turned out such fine misses, that the family is all of· an uproar. Such new-fangled fashions and customs, I never saw before. I rue the day I ever sent my daughters to that boarding-school; but I must go: good day, Thomas,

Tho. Your servant, sir.

DIALOGUE II.

COTTAGE PIETY ON A SUNDAY.

FARMER LITTLEWORTH AND THOMAS NEWMAN.

Thomas is engaged in clearing ground.

Farmer. WELL, Thomas, you are going on with the job apace.

Tho. See, sir, what a deal of weeds and rubbish we have got together within these few days. All this. puts me in mind of the natural heart of man, that there can be nothing done in it till the weeds and filth of sin are got out of it; and sin has taken deeper root in our hearts, than these briers and weeds have in this ground: and when we have got them all on a heap, we shall burn them out of the way. May the Lord do the same in all our hearts!

Far. Why, Thomas, I think Mr. Lovegood will make a parson of you.

Tho. Thank the Lord for his mercy! I hope he has made a Christian of me; and that is all I want. But, sir, I hope all is well at home, as you was not here yesterday, according as you said.

Far. O yes, but I could not get away from the parish meeting time enough: and there came in Dick Heedless, for relief, because his wife was brought to bed, and though he had but two children before, he declared they were all starving. So I thought I would go and see, and to be sure such ragged children, such a dirty house and bed; such broken windows, and heaps of filth in every corner, I never saw before in all my born days. So I told the vestry, that he had